


prologue: there's a universe (inside your head)

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Hank Anderson, Denial of Feelings, Depressed Hank Anderson, Gen, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Not Happy, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: They each have their downs, but the ups come together, and they are both happy. Theyshouldbe happy.Hank is not happy when Connor isn’t looking, and it hurts.So he drinks, fucks the boys tender, never talks to them again; rinse and repeat. The guilt washes down the drain with everything else, but Hank still feels dirty.





	prologue: there's a universe (inside your head)

**Author's Note:**

> this was honestly a bit of an accident but i word-vomited it out in the middle of Li2CO3's chapter 18 and wanted to post SOMETHING so here we are
> 
> if im honest?? this is only partially representative of my v mixed feelings regarding this ship and i want yall to know that before you kill me for bashin or w/e
> 
> CW: brief description of sex, suicide attempt/ideation, alcohol abuse, and, because Hank, strong language

Connor Rooke is born August 2nd, 2038, and by second week of 2039 he is officially welcomed as a detective to the Detroit City Police Department beneath Lieutenant Henry “Hank” Anderson.

 

It is the happiest day of his short life, and the first time he ever cries tears of joy. When Officer Wilson organizes a precinct-wide welcome party, complete with gifts and food made with accommodating care, to celebrate Connor’s arrival, Hank cries too. Just a little.

 

_ (“Welcome to the force, Con.” Officer Rosen beams. _

 

_ Wilson smiles too. “Did you pick your own last name for that?” Connor’s new nameplate is gleaming. _

 

_ “Yes,” his eyes are glistening. He glows. “From RK800.” _

 

_ “It suits you.”) _

 

* * *

 

Which brings them to tonight.

 

It is nearly the end of February; the weather is cool and slushy, and the traffic is bad, but they have the next week off while the FBI comes back through the city to monitor interspecies relations. So they come home, wriggle out of their dampened coats and crawl into matching fleece-lined police academy hoodies. They curl up on the sofa with Sumo at their feet and lounge from afternoon to evening dark, watching century-old films that Hank grew up on and laughing and just  _ being _ .

 

And everything is okay. It’s wonderful.

 

The house is silent and empty to Hank.

 

Sumo makes soft big-dog  _ whumph _ noises in his sleep, tail thumping idly against the floor where it drapes off the dog bed. An orchestra swells softly from the television, the credits of Pinocchio (1940) bathing the living room in dim, buttery light as they roll up. Rain patters softly on the roof, not pelting; a serene, slow drizzle like the sound of a waterfall hum or a distant glockenspiel in the gutter.

 

To anyone else, it would probably sound nice. Like home.

 

Connor’s lukewarm calves are stretched into Hank’s lap, the kid draped longways across the lumpy old sofa. His smooth, young face is lax with sleep, ever-present frown of his brows and formal tightness about his mouth forsaken in favor of unconscious bliss. His long lashes flutter weakly over his cheeks as he dreams, casting feathery shadows over the freckled bridge of his nose.

 

Hank does not think at all about the framed picture that rests face-down on the kitchen table, or how the fourth anniversary of Cole’s death is just a few short months away. He considers the ambien in the medicine cabinet, how many tabs are left, how much he weighs and if it’s enough to keep him sleeping.

 

He aborts the thought almost as soon as it comes to him, instead focusing once more on Connor—the boy is so, so  _ young _ . A year ago Hank would have been fifty-three, looked down at his beer gut and his wiry silver hair and hated the kid, who would stay lean and beautiful forever.

 

But this is now, so instead Hank, at fifty-four now, just aches, because  _ he _ , washed-up and grey and exhausted and mean, has somehow managed to become Connor’s entire world. The nameless feeling pools hot and languid in his belly, at once painful and relieving, and his throat constricts. 

 

They met barely half a year ago, but Connor has managed to slot himself so seamlessly into Hank’s life it’s almost like they’ve known each other for decades—their cohabitation defies explanation, beyond the bounds of family and romance alike. Like they’re made for each other.

 

* * *

 

When Connor breaks down over the barcode and serial number branded into the white skin of his thigh, like livestock, Hank bares his chest and lets the kid touch his old tattoos until the tears stop. He rubs soothing circles into Connor’s back, feeling the reedy hiss of hyperventilation slow beneath splayed fingers, letting the younger man’s trembling palms swipe over the raised lines beneath his pecs and the lump of an old bullet on his stomach that accompanies his ink.

 

When Hank reaches for his .45 glock in a whiskey-fueled fit of suicidal despair, Connor takes the gun and bends the muzzle backwards like it’s no more than clay. He kicks it under the dresser, sobs, and cups Hank’s ruddy face in his cool hands until he finally succumbs to the alcohol and passes out. Hank wakes with his head in Connor’s lap, cradled so carefully between his knees even as spit and bile and tears soak in and stain those perfect coal slacks.

 

When President Warren’s executive order is lifted to make way for the bill—a  _ real _ law—that certifies Connor’s personhood for all to see, Hank lifts the smaller man up into his arms, spinning and laughing and crying as one. Their fingers are latticed together all the way to town hall where they wait, for hours, to register Connor’s citizenship and ID papers.

 

They each have their downs, but the ups come together, and they are both happy. They  _ should _ be happy.

 

Hank is not happy when Connor isn’t looking, and it hurts.

 

* * *

 

 

The boy has only been alive for seven months, and he’s only really lived for two of them, but he is wise beyond his years, or lack thereof. He was built to be brilliant, adroit by design in the ways of blood and tracks and dogged pursuit without sleep—a hunter, born to kill. He has seen far too much death.

 

But his heart? His heart is young. Golden, for sure, in inexplicable defiance of his intended function, and terrifyingly naive. Connor knows  _ of _ many more things than Hank could dream of understanding, even cursorily, but he has experienced so little, and is still callow and green in matters of passion and sensitivity. 

 

Hank wants to love him so, so much, as more than a friend or a colleague or even a family member, but he can’t. It’s not fair; Connor is fresh and vulnerable and Hank is all the more dangerous for it, knowing exactly what he wants and how to get it while Connor is left to flounder through the newness of it all. That doesn’t stop the pooling heat in Hank’s abdomen, the electric charge beneath his skin that’s all conducting  _ somewhere _ . 

 

He’s selfish.

 

* * *

When Connor deflects a flirtatious rookie in the bullpen, Hank learns that the boy has no inclination towards romance, or anything even remotely related to the pursuit. Ever. 

 

_ (“So you’re aro, dipshit?” Hank bristles; Reed spins in his chair; Connor watches. _

 

_ Yellow LED, three cycles, slight twitch as he looks it up. “Yes.” _

 

_ “Not so bad,” Gavin gestures to the palm-sized flag taped to his terminal. Hank recognizes it; a spark of irrational jealousy curdles, ugly, in his gut. “Prick.”) _

 

Without love as an outlet, Hank turns to lust. He takes to the shower at first, thinks about flawlessly chiseled twinks while he jerks himself off, but it isn’t enough.

 

Clubbing leads him to half a dozen inexperienced lovers within the first month and a half, all between barely legal and thirty, doe-eyed and aching for a little bit of warmth to share their beds. Enough drinks in both of them and Hank’s partners don’t seem to care if their names are never “Connor,” and Hank hasn’t the inhibition to stop himself from caterwauling those syllables with every finish. 

 

He drinks, fucks the boys tender, never talks to them again; rinse and repeat. Sloppy and desperate and  _ mournful _ because when the buzz wears off the real Connor will never clench and flutter around him like that, never mewl beneath him for more  _ more more. _

 

The guilt washes down the drain with everything else, but Hank still feels dirty.

 

* * *

 

When Connor notices that something’s off, Hank knows it. He’s cautious, quieter than usual—his wry brand of humor is replaced by insincere bullshit in the form of inadvertently-patronizing care; self-deprecating and insulting jokes are forgotten in lieu of gentle, psychiatric probing, wary looks, furrowed brows.

 

When Hank pulls away, blindly trying to cover up the evidence, cut the ties before they have a chance to break, he can’t ignore the flicker of hurt in Connor’s ever-impassive brown eyes. His composure shudders, on the verge of collapse. Hank has always lashed out in times of stress. He should have known this would happen.

 

_ (“You’ve been avoiding me,” says Connor, voice low, tone flat; machine precision gives way to static. “Why? Did I do something to upset you?” _

 

_ Hank’s fingers tighten around the plastic cup in his hand; Connor tenses, tips his head. “Nothing,” he replies, harshly; it’s better like that.  _

 

_ “If it is something I did, I would like to know. I have never intended to seriously upset you with my behavior, but I would like to have the foreknowledge to prevent inadvertently doing so again in the future.” _

 

_ Hank slams his cup down; Connor flinches, almost imperceptibly. “Mind your own damn business for once.” _

 

_ Connor’s brows furrow; he frowns; Hank growls. The silence is long and pregnant. “Is there anything I can do to alleviate your stress? There is no need for you to talk about it with me if you don’t want to.” _

 

_ “I said mind your own  _ fucking _ business!”) _

 

* * *

They talk less. The movie tonight is the first time in weeks that the two of them have actually settled and spent time alone together—Hank is always out to fill himself up with drinks and fucking, and Connor’s newly-developed sense of shame keeps him too wary to ask after the change in behavior. Hank knows that Connor can taste the alcohol and foreign cologne on him when he first stumbles home, knows that he  _ knows _ thanks to the ibuprofen and water left on his bedside table after every outing.

 

But he never says anything, and the days keep on passing in that same tense silence.

 

When Connor starts to regress back into Machine behavior, Hank knows assuredly that he’s fucked up. At work and home alike, it’s all cold “Lieutenants,” and “Sirs,” vapid stares and stiff refusal to  _ be _ . Every little suggestion, no matter how casual, is treated as an order, completed with heartlessly automated precision.

 

Hank knows defense mechanisms when he sees them, has gotten intimate with their reflections in the cloudy bottom of a bottle. In the sting of his own raised voice that draws an involuntary flinch from Connor, in being too drunk to care. 

 

If he sobs quietly into his beer at Jimmy’s that night, that’s for him to know and nobody else to ever find out. Connor does not come looking for him.

 

Maybe that’s for the best.


End file.
